


Oh My God, They Were Quarantine-Mates

by meaninglessblah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Sibling Rivalry, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23162149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: Jason and Tim are quarantined following a virus outbreak in Gotham.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 25
Kudos: 218





	Oh My God, They Were Quarantine-Mates

Tim glares balefully across the length of the couch and tucks the blanket tighter around his lithe frame. The glower that’s returned when his bare toes brush Jason’s is hot enough to make up for the temperamental heating system. 

Jason hisses and - rather than just withdraw his limbs like a sensible, sane person - shoves his feet back with a swift kick. “Christ, are your toes always this cold, replacement?” 

Tim strategises through five separate ways to destroy Jason’s prized Austen collection before he draws in a steady breath and spits back, “Better than constantly running what would be considered a fever on any _normal_ person.” 

Jason shrugs and drapes his arm over the back of the couch cushions. They barely fit on the furniture together, their legs intertwined and neither willing to concede ground. They’d each claimed a pillow for themselves at the start of their internment, and somewhere between Tim puttering away on his tablet and Jason settling in to read with another mug of tea, they’d encroached on the sacred no man’s cushion between them. 

Tim barks a note of protest when Jason plants the arch of his foot on Tim’s calf and leverages it across the cushion. “I’m bigger,” he says matter-of-factly, like Tim hasn’t dealt with years of baseless sibling arguments from Damian. “That means I need the extra pillow space.” 

Like any rational, compromising adult, Tim braces back against the armrest and drives his heel into the thigh Jason has turned toward him. The older man yelps and withdraws sharply, and if he’s lucky, he’ll have a nice charley horse to complement that raging ego of his. 

“I was here first,” Tim returns spitefully, and shifts regally before returning to his tablet. Firmly declares the argument moot. 

Or not. Jason winds an ankle around his leg in a pin that reads League all over, and yanks him down the couch hard enough that he smacks his head on the armrest and topples off the edge of the cushions. It’s a wonder he manages to save his tablet from a premature death as he rifles through the misplaced blanket and comes up for air to find Jason sprawled the whole length of the couch, toes pointed and head propped up on one elbow. 

Tim’s glare returns tenfold. “What are you, _five?_ ” 

“What are you, five foot?” Jason returns in a high, sarcastic voice. 

He shoves to his feet, blanket discarded, and resists the urge to cross his arms. Settles for effecting his best no-nonsense CEO voice. “I deserve half the couch.” 

Jason just reaches past him, snags his novel, and flips back to his current page. “Come back in the morning.” 

“Jason,” Tim stresses, tone as even as he can manage right now. He draws in a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. “We have to make this work for another fourteen days _at least._ We’re not going to last that long if we can’t compromise on basic things.” 

They weren’t going to last the next hour if Jason didn’t pull his head out of his ass, Tim thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. He has no idea how they’d managed to pass the first two days of quarantine without tearing each other’s throats out. Probably the stern look from Bruce and the pleading puppy dog eyes from Dick before they’d both sealed them in this tiny safehouse have something to do with it. 

Tim doesn’t know what he fears more: waking to find Jason’s drained his four month supply ( _just_ to be safe) of coffee grounds down the kitchen sink out of spite, or the threat of a looming virus pandemic taking Gotham by storm. At this rate, he’s considering testing his luck with the virus; all those toxins from Scarecrow _have_ to have altered their RNA enough to count for something, right? 

Not enough to risk infection, according to the very thorough blood tests Bruce had submitted them to. Jason’s basically a walking petrie dish of unaltered white blood cells; the Pit had a firm hand in resetting him when Ra’s dunked him in the green goo. Apparently that includes his immune system. Watching Jason being submitted to all his early years shots over with the expression of a kicked puppy had been nearly as hilarious as how he’d reacted when Dick had fondly offered him a lollipop for his “good behaviour”. All in all, it means that despite their best efforts to bridge the gap, Jason’s still got huge holes in his immune system’s defences, and Bruce isn’t willing to play the game of roulette in finding out if it can handle this virus. 

And Tim, well. Tim’s missing his spleen. Funny how that happens. 

So here they both are, locked in an impenetrable safehouse together with a month’s supply of Alfred’s tupperware meals and enough hand sanitiser to drown Janus Tower. With a plethora of threats from their well-meaning family to keep them contained. 

Tim’s pretty sure they’re running a betting pool on the outside. He’s already venmo’d Steph a hundred dollars to put on ten days for him, but she’s refused to tell him what Damian’s wager is. Tim’s willing to hold out and put up with all six foot of manchild currently sprawled across the couch if it means getting to take money out of the baby bat’s piggy bank. 

Jason sticks his index finger against the inner spine and lets the book fall closed, meeting his gaze. “Okay, I can negotiate. What’s on the table, replacement?” 

Negotiations are a trump card of Tim’s. Between the host of WE mergers and hostage situations he’s dealt with as both Timothy Drake and Red Robin, he’s pretty sure he’s got this in the bag. “You can have the couch,” he opens with, “if I get the bed.” 

Jason straightens, but doesn’t relinquish any space as he brings himself closer to Tim’s standing height. Tim tries not to take offence at the fact that he nearly succeeds. “No dice. I want the whole bed.” 

Despite no less than six Bats and Birds being at the helm of this ingenious quarantine venture, _somehow_ they’d had the oversight of assigning them the only safehouse with a single bedroom. Ergo, singular bed. The first night had been spent with Jason snarling about Tim’s cold feet and Tim fending off Jason’s stray limbs. The blanket had been an unfortunate casualty in their long-lasting tug-of-war, and Tim’s current spoil was one he’d managed to dig out of the top shelf of the closet. 

Thank God for Alfred and contingency measures. Tim’s already shaking his head at the thought of another sleepless night together. “If you want the whole couch, I get the whole bed.” 

“You take the couch then,” Jason chirps. “Leave the bed for me.” 

“No,” Tim returns immediately. “You start katas at ungodly hours. I’m not being woken up by your inhuman grunting while you use the kitchen as your dojo.” 

“I start katas at eight,” Jason replies with an unimpressed roll of his eyes. “Just because you sleep til eleven most days doesn’t make _me_ unreasonable for being a morning person.” 

“We’re bats. It’s unnatural.” 

“What else do you have to negotiate with?” 

Tim considers. “There’s only one tube of strawberry toothpaste. All the rest are mint, I checked.” The displeased twist of Jason’s features tells him he’s hit a sore spot. “I’ll let you have it in exchange for couch rights.” 

“I don’t need a whole tube for the fortnight,” Jason points out. 

Tim shrugs. “Do you want to risk running out and having to taste mint on your gums all day on the off chance we end up having our quarantine extended? You know what Bruce is like. He’ll always take the safest option. If there’s even a _chance_ of contamination-” 

“Okay, okay,” Jason cuts him off, and looks unhappy about it. “I’ll consider it. Shelve it for now. What about the brownies?” 

“Alfred’s brownies?” Tim clarifies with reluctance, and Jason nods solemnly. 

“Alfred’s brownies.” 

“What about Alfred’s brownies?” 

Jason affects a tight jaw. “They’re in short supply, Timbo. Right now we’ve got an even split truce. But we can always negotiate a trade.” 

The look Tim gives him is justifiably mortified. “Are you _insane?_ I get fifteen Pennyworth brand triple choc fudge brownies with the caramel swirl and I am _not_ trading them out for couch rights that I _deserve-_ ” 

“Big talk from where you’re standing, replacement,” Jason snorts, dragging his gaze up Tim’s form from his lower higher ground. 

Tim swallows down simmering hatred, eyes the blanket strewn across the cold hardwood floor and bites out, “Two brownies.” 

“Three,” Jason immediately comes back with, and Tim shakes his head violently. 

“ _Two,_ ” he repeats. “No other offers. Two brownies and I get half the couch tonight and the whole of the dining table tomorrow.” 

Jason glances over to where he has half of his motorcycle dismantled and strewn across the small table. How he’d convinced Bruce to let him lug the machine up to the second storey safehouse is beyond Tim, but it’s currently leaned against the kitchen counter, which means it probably involved a whole host of threats and blackmail. He’s been tearing it apart for days, the epicentre spreading rapidly out in neatly organised circles from what remains of the bike. Tim’s considered sneaking out to rebuild it one morning just to fuck with him, but it’d probably kickstart a war he doesn’t really want to commit to. 

The older man turns back to scrutinize him, and this time Tim does cross his arms. “I have work to do. You might be using this as vacation leave, but I’ve got a company to run. I need a desk space. I want the table cleared by tomorrow morning. _Before_ you start your katas.” 

Jason rolls that around his mouth, chewing the thought before he answers, “Deal.” 

Tim doesn’t offer him his hand, but considers it sealed when Jason shimmies up the couch and relinquishes exactly half of it for Tim to fold into. He curls his blanket back around his cold calves and props his tablet up on his knees as Jason turns back to his book. Doesn’t glance back down at the budget spreadsheet on his screen as he surveys the placid man opposite him. 

“That was a pretty dirty move you pulled with my calf,” he points out lightly, and Jason hums and nods, gaze unbroken from his page. 

“Got two brownies out of it though,” Jason murmurs back, not fooling Tim for a moment into thinking he’s genuinely distracted. 

Tim nods and fiddles with his screen settings. “Teach me sometime?” 

Jason does glance up at that, but only for as long as he thinks he can get away with it without Tim noticing. Then he buries down deeper into his corner of the cushions and says gruffly, “Maybe. See what you have to negotiate with tomorrow.” 

Tim smiles to himself, the gesture lost in the folds of his blanket. Yeah, this is going to be a long two weeks. He thinks they’ll make it work though, somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> A little fun to help you pass the time in quarantine :) 
> 
> Wasn't planning on making this a slowburn trope-filled fic, but I can always be persuaded. 
> 
> For those whose countries aren't quarantining, stay safe, check in on your loved ones, and of course, keep up your hygiene. We'll pull through <3
> 
> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


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